


Last Bloom of the Winter

by muttthecowcat22



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, HankCon Reverse Big Bang, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Night of the Soul Chapter (Detroit: Become Human), Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 00:42:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20805680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muttthecowcat22/pseuds/muttthecowcat22
Summary: But Connor had been ordered to leave. He could no longer prioritize his primary directive over the Lieutenant’s orders. He had to leave. He didn’t even know why he came back. There was nothing to do, no goal in it . . . unless he was deviant.And Connor wasn’t deviant.He couldn’t be. Not anymore.-Machine Connor finds Hank during Night of the Soul. A canon-divergent au for the hankcon reverse bang!





	Last Bloom of the Winter

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on artwork by the amazing [Fuse](https://twitter.com/phcknrobot)! Thank you so much for sticking with me! Check out the art [here](https://twitter.com/robotphckn/status/1177991372890095618?s=21)!  
Please pay attention to tags and warnings!

“Get out of here!”

g̴̢̹̬̖͎̳͎̤̭̜͂̆̂̐̄͆̈́͊͊̑̐̎̿̽͊͆͑̉̎̃̌͑̎̈́̃͋̚̚͝͝e̶͇̙̔̍͊̇̍̕t̷̨̢̨̧̡̧̡̨̧̯̙̙̲͉̗͚̟̩̫̹͇̝͉͉̻̖̬̥̦͚̣̣̀͗͑͌̃̈́͆͌̓͒͌̽̎̑͂̔̋̒̕͘͝ ̶̨̧̛̙̝̯͇̤̲̟͙͚̹͍̺͍̜͍͍̀̊͐͑́̆̔̒̈́͌̎͋̒̓̌̃̐͐̆̿͒͗͒̽̄̚͘͘ǫ̵͚͖̺̗̮̳̰̥̪̖̿̂̿̔͒͐̑̈̉́͝ų̸̡̧̛̙͍̗̣͖͍͈̗͇͉͖̠̩̖͉̞̬̱̠̺̩̱͎̖̺̻͖̫̊͂̊͛́̊̈́̌̊́̑͒͌̅͒̉͗͊̎̔̔̏̀̏̑͒͌͘̕͘͠͠͠ͅͅͅţ̴̢̠͎͖̘̲̖̟̪̫̖̲͓̪͇̝̲̬̝͇̬̯̹̥̪͓̺̦̭̰̤̻͙̈͜ͅ ̸̡̤̘͎̰͔͕̩̞̙̼͎͔͎̦͚̩̦̹̣͇̠͖͇̗̗̅͛̾͋̽̃̄̋̃͋̄̆̓̍̂́̕͜͠͠ơ̵̡̨̠͙͇͓̙̼͓̻̪̻̻̲͍͓̤̤͈̰͓̺̳̱̮̦̯̯̦͙͈͓̒̉̎̅͒̓ͅͅͅf̶̻͉̺͕̩͙̯̣̣͙͚̮͍̗̤̣͕̈́̆̂͊͑̒͘͘͜ ̶̧̢̧̨̨͉̱̪͚͉̼̫̳̗̟̼͙̣̹̝͇̣͈͍̩͕͂̏̒̔͋̇̎̽͒̃̄̒̂̏̌̈̇͌̀̂̀̓̋̇̿͊͘̕͠͠͝͝ḩ̵̡̧̘͉̳̺̬͙̼͙͕̞͓̙̘͙̣͉̬͇̣̰̻̑̆̽̌͜͝ê̶͈̲̞̣͌̅̋̀̔͑̇̂̔̇̔́̉̾͑̍̒̆̈̀́̽̃̈͊͑̚͠r̴̛͍͎̩͕̠̮̻̯͈̂̏̾͂͊̐̓̃̊̋̌̒̈́͐̒̓̌͑̀͒͗̈͗͋͘̚̕͜͜͠͝ĕ̶̡̨̨̡̛̛͖͇̼͚̳͓̠̯̥͔̲͙̠͚̠͙͙͖̞̼͉̖̲̺̲̺̣͙̬̇̀̐͗̍̅̈́̇̉͌̄͂̋͂͐͐̀̊̍̿͗̄͋̇͗̇͊̆̾͘͝͠ͅ

Red.

It was red. Just like before with Markus. And hard against his palms. Burning up his arms and shaking him at the center. So loud that he couldn’t tell whether his thirium pump was still beating or not.

“LEAVE!” L̴̻̎̃E̶̻̹̖͂̑̓A̵̤̳̒͌͝Ṿ̶̼͝Ê̵̺̱͕

It hurt.

“I said LEAVE, FUCK you!”

“Lieut—”

“Fuck, just LEAVE ME ALONE!”

Connor had never felt hurt. Things weren’t supposed to hurt.

He reached for the doorknob behind him, the metal cool against his hand, away from the red. But he couldn’t compartmentalize it. The wall, hot and searing—Sumo’s whining and the other wall behind him, cold and dead—and Hank with his gun and Black Lamb, his hair matted, eyes red, the picture of his son flat on the table.

Hank, who had been kind to Connor—who was still kind, trying to scare Connor off.

Hank was going to die.

The next chamber of the gun wasn’t empty anymore. Connor knew that. He’d been counting the bullets since the first night he found Hank in his house.

But Connor had been ordered to leave. He could no longer prioritize his primary directive over the Lieutenant’s orders. He had to leave.

He didn’t even know why he came back. There was nothing to do, no goal in it . . . unless he was deviant.

And Connor wasn’t deviant.

He couldn’t be. Not anymore.

“Connor, LEAve.” Hank’s voice gave out on the last word, hoarse from yelling. He stared at the table, didn’t look towards Connor, as he began lifting his gun, hand shaking.

L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆

Connor briefly wondered if Hank would point it at him, but of course not. Of course not.

L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥̺͋͛͆L̴̞͔̳͖̃͌̀͒̈́E̵̝̒A̸̧̖̘̱͊͐̊̚V̴̮̟͍̎͒̀̓Ḕ̵̥̥͋͛͆

-

It was just another usual day. Same old, same old.

Just another usual fucking day in the pathetic existence of Hank Anderson.

Even at his lowest point, he’d had his job and his whiskey. Now, without one of those, the other would run out soon enough.

Sumo nudged his hand, and he threw the beat up tennis ball he’d found in the back of his car again, the dog loping off slowly after it, thin snow sloshing under his feet. 

Hank was doing well for himself, he thought, considering everything. It was a bit cold to be out at the dog park, admittedly, but at least it wasn’t home. There was even a whole other person sitting at a bench closer to the street.

If he focused on the nip in the air, Sumo’s occasional woof, the din of traffic behind him, he could ignore the disappointment he’d seen on Jeffrey, the way Connor’d just stood there without even glancing back. He didn’t feel much of anything out in the park, nothing, and wasn’t that nice?

The sky darkened as Hank sat there, turning from gray to a muted pink as the sun set behind the clouds. He’d thrown the ball about seven or eight times before Sumo tired out and sank to a dry patch of ground beside him. He could even say that it was nice.

He had no intention of ever moving again.

That was until the bomb—or well bombs went off.

It wasn’t right on top of them, but it was still close, a deep rolling thunder across the city. The few birds in the tree above the bench scattered at the noise. Someone else might have mistaken it for a coming storm, but Hank knew better.

He also knew he wasn’t a cop anymore.

He stood from the bench and dusted a few snowflakes off his jeans.

“Come on, Sumo. Let’s go home.”

-

Home was . . . just like he left it. It was always fucking just like he left it. Too much junk lying around, too many things that needed to be thrown away. Too much for just one person.

He let Sumo off his leash, sagged onto the couch, and flipped on the TV without bothering to turn on any lights.

And the first thing it showed him was Jericho exploding. An aerial view of an old freighter engulfed in deep orange flames, smoke mixing with the low clouds above it. On every damn channel.

Every singe thing that had happened just . . . blown up.

That—

It had hurt when Connor had pried into Cole’s . . . life, obviously using it to coerce Hank into proceeding with the investigation. It had hurt when Connor had shot those two girls at the club who just wanted to get away. It had hurt when Connor had gotten himself run fucking over trying to chase that girl and her child.

But knowing that he was on that boat and that his fucking mission had lead him there. It was unbearable.

Hank had left him at the station without any help. If he failed his mission, they’d kill him. But he’d followed through and still died.

It didn’t matter how many times he said he didn’t care.

Because Hank cared. He cared about Connor. It didn’t matter whether he was a machine or not. He could finally admit it—too late. Always too late.

He stood from the couch, Sumo whining again as he walked into the kitchen, flicked on the dying light, and dug the whiskey out of the cabinet. He hadn’t had anything as strong since that day Connor found him on the floor.

He pulled out the old, hard chair at the table and curled his head into his hands. The weight of it all pressed onto his back, forced him lower, all the energy leaving him at once. He reached for the bottle, and soon enough it was empty. So he reached for another. Then, he reached for his gun.

The sun sank lower through the blinds until only the streetlights kept him company. The gun remained on the table, Sumo’s whining static in the background. The old dog had nudged at his empty food bowl a few times, but he was used to Hank hearing him and not moving to do anything about it.

And Hank sat in the middle of everything he owned, his entire life, confined to a few hundred square feet in an eyesore section of Detroit that would soon be mowed over for a new android factory.

He watched the shadows from his hair under the kitchen light dance on the table. His eyes burned, ached to keep open, but when he closed them, he could still think a little bit. And he couldn’t let himself think.

He barely noticed when Connor stepped in the door.

He heard the sounds, the door creaking open, the dull thud of shoes on the floor, but he didn’t register what it meant until a full shadow joined his hairs on the table, until Connor’s voice joined Sumo’s whining.

Wasn’t he supposed to be dead? Hank couldn’t remember anymore.

But the only things that could come out of Connor’s mouth were that lieutenant stuff. Always that. Hank wasn’t even that anymore, hadn’t deserved it in years.

And then _apologizing_.

The last thing Hank wanted to hear was an apology. From an android.

This was all Hank’s fault. He was the reason that he was the way he was. It had been his _choice_ to quit. His last choice. But it was his. Not Connor’s.

And he finally looked up at Connor and saw him just as dead as Cole was on the table, LED a whitish-blue, no stress at all.

Hank felt so tired.

“Hank—”

“Get out of here!”

Connor froze up, wouldn’t leave, so Hank kept it up.The android had to obey direct orders. He’d have to leave eventually.

But he just. wouldn’t. move. Hank couldn’t keep going. He was too damn tired. Tired of his shit life, tired of having anything good taken away before he could feel it, tired of whatever this was with Connor. It was too much trouble.

He . . . he couldn’t look at Connor anymore. He’d give Hank up without thinking twice, just like everyone else—even if he couldn’t feel it, and that was just the thing. Hank couldn’t convince himself that Connor couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t. But he could convince himself that the android was as cold as the rest of the world.

Hank reached for his gun . . . and the metal was warm and sticky, from holding it too much without any force behind it. And it was that feeling, the twisting in his guts until he was sick, that had always stopped him before. And that was just the problem, wasn’t it? Hank wanted to believe that everything in his life was left up to chance, not that he had put himself there, made the decisions, that landed him in all of it.

It was his tendency to be hopeful, after all.

And he’d put that all on Connor. Someone who didn’t have any choice about it. And that had been wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

Hank’s vision swam, the single light above the table dancing off the barrel of the gun and the hand that shook around it. He was more sober now than he’d ever been getting to this point, aware enough still of the rain outside and the pathetic innards of his lonely house. And how cold it was since he’d neglected to turn the heat on, even with a sweatshirt.

Hank didn’t know what he was waiting for. He didn’t know what he had ever waited for. Everything that could had already screamed at him that he was useless.

For Connor to go. He’d wait until until then, until Connor left.

And then something warm wrapped around his wrist.

A hand and fingers. Squeezing hard enough that the gun stopped quivering.

“No̸͚͊ ̵͉͑.” Static laced the voice, but it was unmistakably Connor’s. “Hank.” The grip on his wrist tightened further. “Please. No.” And that was the first—no the second time he’d called Hank by his name. It sounded so different. And there was a different tremor in that voice. And something that Hank was forgetting about or couldn’t remember.

The red blinking light drew his eyes, blurred around the edges. Connor stood a mere few inches away, bent over Hank, closer than he’d ever been. Hank felt the gun pulled from his hand and placed with a dull thud across the table without either of them looking away. The grip on his wrist remained.

No one had been that close to Hank in a long time. “Connor, you should leave,” he said again, gentler this time.

But the grip on his wrist remained steady, a brief trimmer running up that arm and shuddering through the android, only perceptible because of his proximity. The light blinked one last time, then shone a bright constant red. And Hank knew it then, that he wouldn’t win this.

“No.” Connor stepped closer, sliding between Hank and the table, their knees touching. “No.” His hand slid up Hank’s arm and gripped his shoulder, tight and burning, his eyes intense and unwavering. “No.” The fingers of his other hand threaded into Hank’s hair, catching on tangles. “No. Han̵̛̞k̴̠̉ ̵̧̃.” He tugged on Hank, pulling him towards him.

And Hank let himself be lead, until his head was resting on Connor’s belly. He couldn’t remember the last time someone else had touched his hair, his face, his neck. Connor was so very warm, heat radiating from his middle, artificial muscles moving beneath the fabric with every quick, unnecessary breath. Hank couldn’t remember why he’d thought the android would be cool to the touch. Hank’s muscles relaxed into the heat, eyes sliding closed. The least he could do was listen to Connor.

“Don’t leave. Hank.” Connor’s other hand slid into Hank’s hair, bent further over, warm breath falling behind Hank’s ears, his voice softer. And Hank felt the warmth too in his own chest, right where he thought he’d stopped feeling anything much at all.

“Shhh.” Hank said. He gripped Connor on both sides, tight because he hadn’t realized he needed to hold him until he did. “I’m not going anywhere.” And he wasn’t. He knew could make it through the night so long as someone stayed with him. He’d done it before.

Complete silence hovered above him. Something small and wet dropped onto his scalp. A nose, then Connor’s whole face pressed into his hair.

And Hank let himself cry as well. Because it was something he had done a lot of at the beginning, then stopped altogether. He buried his face in Connor’s too-stiff shirt and too-thin jacket and stayed.

They stayed that way for minutes, hours, Hank didn’t know how long. Connor’s arms slid around his back at some point to hold him closer, and his slid around Connor, the give of the android’s skin and muscle more realistic than he’d ever imagined. Sumo stopped whining, shuffled over and curled somewhere between their feet.

It was still dark when Connor shifted, lifting his head, his light remaining stuck on red. Hank reached up to run his thumb over the glowing circle, the skin over it impossibly soft. Connor looked up at him through exhaustion.

“Let’s lie down. Okay?” Hank asked, noticing the scattered moles on Connor’s ear he’d never been able to see before.

The red light blinked once under Hank’s thumb. Connor reached up to pull Hank’s hand down from his temple. He held it on his fingertips like it might burn him if their palms touched, his skin smooth and clear over Hank’s rough and sun-hardened. “Okay.”

When Hank stood, his knees burned from having not moved in so long. “Hank?” He stumbled forward, gripping Connor’s shoulder for stability.

“Sorry,” Hank said, “I uh—” He was still a little drunk. He knew that, and Connor knew that. Hank had told that to other people before, so he didn’t understand why he was having so much trouble saying it then.

“I’ll help,” Connor said, reaching an arm around Hank’s middle while Hank leaned on his shoulders. It reminded Hank of some other time that was slipping his mind as they hobbled to the bedroom. Connor’s red light bounced off the dark walls as they went, his strong, lithe frame supporting Hank’s weight without issue, his heartbeat pounding through his side under Hank’s arm.

The bedroom was dark, the bed a mess, covers rumpled and stale. Hank slipped off Connor’s shoulders and onto the edge of the bed, carefully throwing his feet over the blankets. Connor remained standing a few feet away from the bed, his light illuminating the dark room in soft red.

“Come on and lie down, Connor.”

The red light blinked again at Hank’s words. “I’m an android.” The words were slow as if he needed time to think them over. “I don’t need to lie down.”

It passed Hank’s mind that there was something he should be wary of, but he was too tired to pick it apart. And Connor was tired too; he just didn’t show it like other people. He carried it in his eyes and the way that his fingers twitched, and the intensity of his light. “You sure about that? Come on and lie down, sweetheart.” Hank patted the other side of the bed.

Connor remained motionless, his light blinking a few times, once briefly flitting to yellow. He approached the side of the bed across from Hank, footsteps nearly silent, and reached out to touch the blanket over top of it. Just as quietly and smoothly, without shaking the bed in the slightest, he slipped off his shoes and laid down, curling on his side to face Hank, red light pointing up at the ceiling. “Thank you, Hank,” he said, and Hank thought that he could make out the slightest smile through the shadows.

And suddenly Hank felt very tired, more so than he had in a long time. He pulled a pillow under his head and turned to face where Connor was lying just a foot or so away. His eyes slipped closed without his permission, his muscles sagging beneath him.

The steady red light surrounded him as he drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Chapter 2 will be posted in a few days! Comments and kudos are much appreciated <3


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